A Poem
Dear Fellow Dreamer,
We’re nearing the end of the season, and we could all use a smile, right?
This week I’m sharing a poem I wrote many years ago—one that’s meant to be read aloud. Since the introduction is a story in itself, I’ve created two recordings for you. The first gives you the background, and the second is my reading.
I dedicate this post to anyone going through a rough time who may appreciate a little levity.
Background to the Poem
Reading
Fabric
When Jazz pulls in on fabric shopping day
we start composed. She’s helping me reform
my life and caffeine gives her vision so we
stop on College, four-way flashers on,
and Jazz is gone.
Returns in a Frappuccino glaze I’ve learned
to trust. Now forward thrust on down to Queen
(but not without one thrift shop rove where Jazz
spies macramé she wove in 1975).
Then we arrive
and for a moment I could swear the store
grows hushed. Her fingers brush the first tight bolt
of Chinese orange silk and it falls wide;
that’s when I blush and know we’ll be a while
in every aisle
all twenty-two. At times there isn’t much
to do but follow where this woman’s gasps
are heard among the linens, crêpes,
and chintzes, and the toiles—“Oh God, the toiles!”
which she inhales
then strokes, then studies, nods her head and smiles,
“Each one’s a story.” Jazz’s voice is low
when she asks which piece I would have to fill
my home and adds, “Take time and choose with care.”
She leaves me there.
I stare at finely printed scenes arrayed
in cottages and streams and children. Pause.
Remember times like these. And here in green
the churning serpent somersaults again,
is not quite slain
though ones with spears eternally stand poised
to strike. I like the blameless cherubs more.
That dog beside the lovers and those geese
seems happy just to be where he is drawn.
There’s much to learn
here by the yard, or ponder anyway.
I’d still choose lovers over beasts but here
are both, and minstrels playing under trees,
and tables set with bread and cheese and wine.
This toile is fine…
“Fuck, yes!” says Jazz who by this time has torn
apart the store and still wants more to touch.
I’m table-clothed by two, by half-past three
I’ve got a screen, by four eight pillow shams.
“Excuse me, ma’am,”
a shop clerk scolds, “Please leave the samples on
the hangers.” “Oops! I’m sorry yet again,”
says Jazz, more chartreuse hues and dragon flies
to chase, and monkeys bold in fancy hats.
You can’t stop that.
My bags are full by five, I’m still alive
and Jazz is pale. We drive in silence now
across the bias seam of city road
tugged back I go to my new fifth-floor home
not quite alone.
A single monkey eyes me through wrap.
Reminds me of how glad I am that Jazz
can sew. But more, how glad I am for friends
who hug before they go, and drape my world
with grace unfurled.
© Robin Blackburn McBride From In Green (Guernica Editions)
